Beneath the Surface
806 Words
Cassian awoke with a headache and a fire in his chest.
He hadn’t slept well—not since the encounter. Every night was a blur of vivid dreams and aching longing. He remembered only pieces: her face, her voice, the way she moved through the fog like she belonged to it.
He'd reread his own article five times since printing it. A part of him was embarrassed by the emotion he’d poured into it. But another part—the part that had seen her—knew it was the only honest thing he’d written in years.
So he researched.
By candlelight and lamplight, in city libraries and the restricted archives of Bellington’s oldest buildings, Cassian traced every mention of creatures that might resemble her. He combed through legends of veiled women in graveyards, patrons who never aged, and whispers of ancient predators walking among polite society.
But it always came back to her. Always.
He was spiraling, and he knew it. And yet, he didn’t want it to stop.
He took to carrying a small notebook, filled with descriptions, symbols, phrases he’d heard in half-waking dreams. The bartender at his local pub had started calling him “ghost-boy.” Cassian barely noticed.
Elsewhere, behind walls older than the city itself, the grand hall of the large manor buzzed with uneasy energy. The coven was gathering.
Seraphine stood in her private quarters, dressed in midnight velvet that seemed to drink in the flickering candlelight. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the man with ink-stained fingers and clever eyes. A foolish mortal, yes. But there was something magnetic about him. Curious, and strangely bright. She had not meant to reveal so much. And certainly not to enjoy it.
She told herself it was strategy—letting him feel he’d stumbled onto some sacred truth, only to snatch it away. But deep down, a part of her stirred at the memory of his voice saying her name… even if he didn’t remember it now.
A knock at the door.
“Come,” she said, not turning.
Aradia entered, her silhouette sharp and severe, like a blade wrapped in satin. She moved with practiced grace, each step calculated.
“You called a meeting,” Aradia said.
“I did,” Seraphine answered, her gaze still on the mirror.
Aradia tilted her head. “Another debate about protecting the humans?”
Seraphine finally turned. “No debate. My decision stands.”
Aradia’s eyes narrowed. “Your mercy weakens us.”
“My mercy keeps us alive.”
Aradia stepped forward, voice dropping. “You coddle them like pets. You forget what they are—fragile, volatile, quick to hunt what they don’t understand.”
“And yet we exist because we understand restraint. If we ruled by blood, we’d have been hunted to extinction centuries ago.”
“Your compassion is a liability.”
Seraphine’s smile was slow, like frost spreading across glass. “And your arrogance is tedious.”
Aradia bristled. “You speak as though you’re above reproach. But the others murmur. You indulge a human, dangle secrets before him like a game. What happens when he uncovers more than he should?”
“Then I will decide what becomes of him,” Seraphine said coldly. “Not you.”
“You should have killed him.”
“And you should know your place.”
The room darkened subtly, shadows stretching at the edges of Seraphine’s will. Aradia’s posture stiffened, but her eyes blazed.
“You rule as though you're still clinging to some long-lost humanity. That sentiment will be your undoing.”
Seraphine crossed the space between them in a blink, her voice now a whip sheathed in silk. “I rule because I have vision. Because I know that enduring power is not born from fear, but from balance. Something you’ve never understood.”
Aradia sneered. “You're a relic, Seraphine. A queen of ash clinging to a dying throne. And that little human of yours? He’ll be your ruin.”
The crack of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the chamber before Aradia’s body slammed into the stone wall. Bookshelves trembled.
Seraphine stood over her, deadly calm. “You forget yourself.”
Blood welled at the corner of Aradia’s mouth. She looked up, laughter bitter. “Finally showing your teeth, my queen?”
Seraphine knelt, voice a velvet snarl. “Do not mistake civility for weakness. I let you speak. I let you breathe. But I will not suffer your insubordination again.”
Aradia stared up at her, hate simmering behind her eyes.
“This isn’t over,” she whispered.
“No,” Seraphine agreed, standing. “It isn’t.”
She turned and walked away, regal and unshaken. Behind her, Aradia lay on the cold stone floor, seething.
In her heart, a seed of rebellion took root.
- Writer
